Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Thanksgiving with the Rosarios

Hola mi Gente,
The following is something of an annual tradition here at the [un]Common Sense
Blog.

Thanksgiving, for reasons I won’t get into now, is one of my
favorite times of the year. Yeah, we should call it Thanks-taking for the crimes against our First Nation brothers and sisters. But Puerto Ricans are the
ultimate fusionists and we make everything our own. Thanksgiving in our home
was a celebration of our culture -- our food, our music, and family ties. I
love Thanksgiving most of all because all the great childhood memories.

In any case, I love the ritual of breaking bread together
and honoring gratitude -- giving thanks. I’ve heard it said gratitude and
sadness cannot coexist and that’s been my experience. And right now, I need a
lot of gratitude, man. And with that, I offer the following story…

Frankenstein’s Turkey

[Note: an animal was harmed in the
making of this post]

It really was too much --
embarrassing beyond anything. Everybody on that B60 Wilson Bus was staring at
us and the best my uncle could do was laugh that fuckin infectious, jolly laugh
of his. He thought it was hilarious and, sensing my embarrassment, he laughed
harder, causing the other passengers to stare more intently.

There it was again, a movement from
the cause of my embarrassment. You see, in Puerto Rican neighborhoods, it
wasn’t uncommon to purchase live poultry from el vivero -- a marketplace selling live fowl. Usually that entailed
picking or asking for a particular chicken and the proprietor would take it out
of its cage, go to the back, and prepare it for you.

But this was the day before
Thanksgiving and my mother had insisted I accompany my uncle to the nearest
vivero to buy a live turkey. At the time we were living in the then mostly
African American Brooklyn neighborhood of East New York Avenue (right across
the street from the back entrance of the Pitkin Theater) and the nearest vivero was a bus ride away. My uncle Onofre,
Tío Nofrín as we called him, was already in his cups though it was still early
in the day, and he insisted in a live turkey to take home. This was unusual, I
thought at the time, because normally we would tell el vivero to prepare the
bird for us. But my uncle insisted we take the fucker live, so el vivero, somewhat peeved, put the turkey in a large brown paper grocery bag, and off we
went. No sooner than we sat down on the crowded bus, the turkey, perhaps
sensing this wasn’t going to be a good day, began making a fuss and engaged in
repeated and often violent attempts to escape the paper bag. This in turn
caused all the passengers to stare, which made my already slightly inebriated
uncle to laugh out loud.

He obviously thought it was
hilarious, the passengers were alarmed at the tipsy Puerto Rican with a live
turkey in a large brown grocery bag, and I wanted to die from embarrassment.
You see, part of growing up in a society that sees ones culture as different or
alien, is that there’s an internal tension between the very strong pull to
assimilate (and escape the alienation) and the tug of cultural pride. I was
raised to be proud of my Puerto Rican heritage, but I decided that I drew the
line at live turkeys on the B60 Wilson bus.

My uncle Nofrín, already a
happy-type person sober, became even happier the more he drank. And the happier
he got, the more he laughed. He had this patented outburst, “Ayyyy Coo-Coo,” an
idiomatic expression that didn’t mean anything except that it usually followed
a punch line to a joke/ prank or when something outlandish happened. For
example, if grandma fell on her culo in front of everyone, you can be sure Tio
Nofrín would follow that up with a hearty, “¡Ayyyy Coo-Coo!” and start cracking
up. So here I was with Tio Nofrín, wrestling with a live turkey on a crowded
New York City bus laughing his ass off and yelling out, “Ayyyy CooCoo!” every
time the turkey attempted to break free of the paper grocery bag. Embarrassing.

But I’ve been a little unfair to
you, my dear reader, and I need to backtrack just a little at this point
because I’ve started this story at the wrong juncture. This particular
Thanksgiving actually began with my sister, Darlene, winning a raffle at the
local Catholic Church where we took our weekly catechism classes. The prize?
She won a large truckload of groceries. We were so happy! The fact was that
while I can’t say we starved, there were times when we were growing up that
food was scarce. I guess this is what advocates now call “food insecurity.” I
know all about food insecurity. For example, “wish” sandwiches weren’t uncommon
in the Rosario household and it was rare that we had enough capital to do food
shopping for a whole week. My mother often had to scrape up dinner on a
day-to-day basis. So the prospect of having a whole truckload of groceries was
something my siblings and I saw, as Martha Stewart would say, “A good thing.”

My mother is a proud woman. Even as
a child, I often marveled at how my mother could walk down the worst ghetto
street and still manage to appear regal. To borrow the South African phrase
(used in the Paul Simon song), my mother walked as if she had diamonds on the
soles of her shoes. She had a way of holding herself, an attitude, so natural
it didn’t offend people. People just assumed she was entitled to that regal
bearing. She walked straight, with perfect posture, and her manner, though
imposing, was unaffected:head held high, her perfectly sculpted nose, and those
cheekbones to die for, adding a sublime beauty to that imperial pose. When she
barked out an order, people listened and though she was in actuality a petite
and small woman, she always seemed taller than her actual size. And while it
was true we were poor, my mother would dress us in the best clothes -- clothes
bought at a fraction of their original price at used clothing stores and
Salvation Army centers located in upscale neighborhoods. And she taught us to
walk in that same way. In fact, to slouch in front of my mother was
sacrilegious.

That's why, perhaps, when my mother
saw all these groceries being carted into our third-floor tenement walk-up, she
became enraged thinking it was charity. She managed to insult the priest and was
about to order the delivery boys out of her house before we could convince her
that Darlene had won all that food in a raffle.

So what did my mother do? Did she
squirrel away the food, making sure we would have groceries for, like, evah?
No! First, she gave away two of the (three) Butterball Turkeys to neighbors in
bad straits and then proceeded to call all of our tribe for a big, family
Thanksgiving dinner.

And that’s when she charged my
uncle and me to “go get a turkey from el vivero.” When we finally arrived with
the live turkey, a great clamor ensued. First, my mother wanted to know what
had gotten into my uncle that he would be crazy enough to bring a live turkey
to her house. Her instructions were clear, she enunciated in tones usually
reserved for intellects hovering at the idiot level. I feared she would task us
with returning the damned thing, but then my grandmother insisted that she
could “prepare” the turkey. After all, my grandmother reasoned, she had been
raised in small Puerto Rican town, and slaughtering and preparing food wasn’t
something foreign to her.

A quick, impromptu family meeting
was held in order to decide how to go about preparing the turkey and soon a
full-scale heated debate broke out which culminated in my grandmother rushing
out, grabbing the poor turkey by the neck, and spinning it violently above her
shoulder. According to my grandmother, this was a sure-fire way of killing the
turkey, a technique apparently used for generations in Salinas,
the town she was born and raised.

Unfortunately for the turkey, this
twisting only resulted in a wicked crook in its neck, which became immediately
noticeable as soon as my grandmother let go and it started running wildly
around the apartment seeking a way out of its predicament. I felt so bad I
almost opened the door for it, but the turkey was doomed, and with his neck now
at a right angle to its body, I doubt it would’ve been able to exploit an
escape opportunity even if it recognized it. At this point, half the family was
in determined pursuit of our potential meal and the other, younger half was
screaming traumatized. I'm sure some of my cousins still have nightmares of
screaming turkeys with crooked necks. The only one who was clearly enjoying
himself was Tío Nofrín who was yelling out “¡Ayyyy Coo-Coo!” as he joined in
the chase of the wayward turkey.

Eventually, someone caught up to
the turkey and it was then decided that the best, most merciful course of
action would be to slit its throat, an action that my stepfather, Vincent
promptly committed. However, all this accomplished was that the turkey, resuming
its valiant quest for life, ran spraying great splotches of turkey blood
everywhere. Eventually, the turkey was finally subdued and apparently murdered
and a large pot of water was set to boiling in order to plunge the turkey in
for the removal of its feathers. No sooner than the turkey was plunged into the
boiling water that it quickly jumped out and again made one last attempt at
life. This time, everyone was traumatized, screaming in horror. Finally, my
grandmother, clearly upset at losing face when her fool-proof turkey killing
technique was shown to be ineffective, grabbed the poor fellow, and with one
last pull on its deformed neck, finished him off.

Suffice it to say the turkey no
longer gave anyone trouble and before you knew it, it was de-feathered and
prepared in the pavo-chon Puerto Rican
style (a turkey that tastes like a lechon). Soon all the
aunts, all high-strung drama queens, creative cooking geniuses, were busy
preparing the dishes they were best known for (and getting on each other's last
nerves in the process) and the rest of the family settled in for fun and games.

You have to understand that I come
from a family of cheaters. For example, my grandmother, bless her soul, was a
notorious card cheat. Mind you, she wasn’t a good or adept card cheat, in fact,
she was quite bad at it. But a card cheat she was, and in our family cheating
at games is actually allowed. What isn’t allowed is being caught at cheating
(the sole exception to this rule being my grandmother). People who marry into
our family have a difficult time understanding our ethics, but I assure you we
have our moral standards, they're just somewhat nuanced and, well, “complicated.”

We’re also a family comedians and
pranksters and if you happen to commit a gaffe, or do something particularly
embarrassing, you will forever be associated with that action/ event. For
example, one friend of the family had the tenacity to stick her finger into
some food an aunt was preparing and she was quickly chastised with a whack to
the head with a large metal ladle. From then on she was known as “La Lambia” --
the greedy or starved one. I have an aunt who’s predisposed to exaggeration
(actually she’s compulsive liar) and part of “family fun” was asking her
questions about events we all knew she would exaggerate and then make fun of
her for her exaggerations. One part of the family, my mother’s sister’s brood,
were known for their bad tempers and were called the “Pissed Offs.” Another
part of the clan was called the “Mini Munchkins” because they were all short.

Individuals were similarly stigmatized.
For example, I was affectionately known as mal
tiempo, literally translated as “bad time,” but is a phrase normally used
to describe natural disasters such as hurricanes and floods. My sister,
Darlene, was called “La Princesa” (The Princess) because of her beauty and pretentious
airs. Also, if you were an unfortunate victim of an accident, that too was
fodder for humor. One cousin, who accidentally shot himself in the foot, was
ragged on for that for years. Even something as mundane as taking a shower during
family get-togethers was fraught with danger, as a cousin would invariably rush
in with a Polaroid camera to snap a picture or a brother or mother would dump a
pail of iced water on an unsuspecting bather.

Suffice it to say that fun and
games in my family was in actuality an excuse to engage in all manner boundary
trespassing, psychological torment, cheating, hysterical and inappropriate
demonstrations of affection and anger, and ridiculing. And you know what? It
was hilarious! As long as you weren’t the butt of the joke, of course. And
every year, there would be a different theme and a different butt of the
holiday joke.

So here it was Thanksgiving Eve and
the music was blaring, the home warm with all the cooking, fogging the windows,
and you could smell all the great food being prepared. Family members were all
engaged in the joyful activities of family holidays when the men decided they
would all venture on a “Boy’s Night Out” outing, much to the expressed
dissatisfaction of the women. One of my earliest lessons as a young man was
that one should never anger the women on my mother’s side of the family, for
they are a ferocious group of women-warriors. In any case, the men went out and
they took me along with them because they wanted to school me in the ways of
men. Going out, for the men, meant going somewhere where there was liquor,
loose women, and illegal gambling. Apparently, being man meant being able to
hold your liquor, no matter how much of it you imbibed, and demonstrating your
virility by flirting with/ picking up women my mother would kill for even
thinking of looking at me.

And this particular night, the
night before Thanksgiving, there was a lot of gambling going on. At first, my
stepfather, Vincent, was making a killing. One thing though, while sober,
Vincent was a model of stability, however, once inebriated, he lost all
self-control. Instead of quitting while he was ahead, he instead lost all his
winnings and his paycheck to boot. This I knew was bad news, but Vincent was
beyond listening to my appeals for sanity. Eventually, he convinced my uncles
to lend him money and in that way help him win his money back, and he went on
another winning streak, only to commit the same error, managing to lose the
money loaned by my uncles.

It was 5 AM in the morning before
the men began to sober up and come to the realization that they would
eventually have to go back home to a group of assuredly angry women waiting for
them. So they came up with the following plan: they decided it was best for me
to go upstairs first in order to scope out the situation. No sooner that I
walked into the apartment that I realized things were worse than even I
expected. Most of the women were sitting at the kitchen table silently
seething, waiting for the men to return. You could actually see the waves of
anger emanating off their bodies, distorting the air like heat waves.

I went back downstairs and
dutifully gave my status report and most of the men balked at going upstairs,
thinking (quite wisely), discretion was the better part of valor. But Vincent,
who seemed to not have sobered, guffawed, got out of the car, and with a
swagger told everyone else he would show everyone who wore the pants in his
home and proceeded upstairs. I followed, honestly fearing the worst.

There was this long flight of
stairs that reached up to a small foyer-like area to our apartment, and it was
here where my mother confronted a clearly incoherent and inebriated Vincent.
Somehow she surmised he was gambling, had lost his money, and was drunk, and
she became so incensed, out of anger she pushed him. Vincent, still drunk from
the huge amount of rum he had imbibed, didn’t stand a chance and he went down
that long flight of stairs landing in a way that no human body should land, his
neck now at an angle eerily similar to the turkey’s neck the day before.

I turned to my mother, said,
“You killed him.”

My mother, “I did not!”

Me, “Ma, I saw you push him.
Look at him I think his neck is broken.”

My mother, “Don’t you say that!
I didn’t push him, he was so drunk. He fell on his own!”

Me, “No he didn’t mom, you
pushed him!”

At this point my aunt, the
compulsive liar, who up until now had been asleep, appeared out of nowhere and
said, “I saw everything and Lydia didn’t push him, he fell!”

Before I could continue several of
her sisters and my grandmother came out and all stated, though not one of them
had witnessed anything, that Vincent had fallen of his own accord and they all
gave me this look that clearly indicated it was dangerous to persist in this
line of reasoning.

By this time I resigned myself to
the reality that the whole conversation was a moot point and went downstairs to
check on Vincent. I was certain he broke his neck, but no sooner that I called
his name that he opened his eyes, smiled, and managed to get up. I guess it’s
true that God loves children and drunks because to this day, I don’t know how
he survived that fall.

Right then, I felt rather than saw
something fly over my shoulder and land with a loud crash. My mother, in her
anger, had thrown the turkey, which had been slowly roasting in a low-heated
oven for several hours, down the stairs and it crashed, pan and all, and broke
into several large greasy chunks of turkey parts. Thanksgiving, which had begun
on such a high note, had now been ruined and we didn’t even have a turkey. My
mother and her sisters quickly dressed and left the house, the rest of the men
probably getting similar treatment outside.

My sisters, and some of my younger
cousins, immediately gathered and started an impromtu choir of wailing and
crying because Thanksgiving had devolved into a dysfunctional madness and the
turkey had now died -- yet again. And I was so upset with Vincent that I told
him he was responsible for all the crying and for the ruination of Thanksgiving
dinner.

Upon hearing this, Vincent seemed
to sober up a little, pulled himself up, said, “I’ll fix this,” and began picking
up the pieces of the turkey.

I was beyond shocked, said,

“How the hell are you going to
fix this, Vincent, that turkey is done!”

Vincent,

“You’ll see,” he mumbled as I
left to go outside for a walk, unable to take it anymore.

When I returned, Vincent and my
sisters were busy trying to sew the turkey back together again and it was so
funny, I had to laugh and we all started laughing. I mean, this turkey was all
discombobulated, legs akimbo, stitched all together like some horror story
monstrosity. And true to form, we christened the turkey, “Frankenstein’s
Turkey,” and while attempting to put it together, one of my sisters chuckled
and intoned, “It’s alive! It’s alive!” and we all started really laughing.

Eventually, when the rest of the
family finally returned, my mother saw us all laughing, took one look at the
turkey, and she started cracking up. I mean, it was impossible to look at this
thing and not laugh. And that’s how we spent that Thanksgiving, eating a
horribly tortured and reconstructed turkey. And believe it or not, we often
reminisce about that day, thankful that we have these stories to tell. And while
we have had “richer” thanksgivings, under better economic conditions, that was
still one of the best turkeys we ever had because we had it together.

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My life experiences have led me to strive to help others move their lives in a positive direction, exploring opportunities that would otherwise be closed to them. I like to think I sit at the crossroads of the dialectic between knowledge and action. I hope that what transpires here is reflective of my beliefs.